Sober
by RRfan4life
Summary: I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me. /RossRachel, AU\ Rated R/M
1. Chapter 1

Sober  
By: Caity

It was a distant memory.

So far away, so buried in the recesses of his mind that it was almost a past life. Like he was someone else, that lived at some different time. A time when life had been such a mysterious, exciting experience. When every little turn and bump churned up some epiphany that he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

The times he only dimly remembered.

He wished he didn't.

It seemed almost a fool's journey now, to think even the faintest thought about her. It only brought inevitable heart ache, and depression, and some forseen onslaught of indulgence in addictions. All formed due to memories, silhouettes, vague recollections. And a face that's image was so completely burned into his brain that no amount of any vice would distort the etch.

_Her_ face.

A girl, from so long ago. At least, it felt like a long time. In his mind, she always seemed so close to the touch, just a fingertip's breath away. In reality, he knew that she was as far from reach as she could get.

_She was once mine._

_And she remains in my mind, in some indelible ink that I can't get to fade. _

_But to understand that, you'd have to understand who she was. Who we were, in some bygone era, locked away in the crevice of a timeline that weaves its way through my past and into the present. It both haunts me and comforts me, a disease and a cure. The one part of me I hope remains, yet the only part I ever wished was truly gone._

_And- it pains me to think this- but sometimes, I wonder._

_Did I even really know her at all?_

-----

_Five Years Earlier_

It burned.

Ross felt the whiskey slide down his throat, scorching and igniting all his senses. It was a welcome pain to the numbness he'd been experiencing as of late. He couldn't remember the last time he truly lost himself in liquor, to get in so deep that the fire became comforting and whatever bothered you in the first place was safely hidden underneath it. He wasn't planning on reaching that level tonight, but just the thought was a bit satisfying.

He wordlessly tapped the edge of the empty glass on the table, and the bartender came to refill it.

"Something on your mind, kid?", asked the fifty-something waiter as he planted a new drink on the counter.

"Not really. We'll see after I finish this one."

The bartender laughed a bit and shook his head before retreating to the other patrons of the bar, leaving just Ross and the whiskey. He mulled things over in his mind as he took the glass and swirled the amber-colored liquid until ripples undulated the surface. He couldn't even have begun to describe what was really going through his head. The same thoughts, regrets, and musings that did every night, leaving one bitter footprint after another in the etchings of his thoughts.

It had been two years since the divorce, already, and he still couldn't stretch his mind around it. They had a _life_, a child . . . all gone to shit. He was lucky if he saw his son once a month, anymore. Carol always claimed they were just too busy, but he knew better. She stopped caring. Ben had two parental figures now; why ruin the picture by throwing in a third wheel?

Before he knew it, his glass was nearly empty before him. His stomach was aflame with the ingested alcohol, and he hoped it would soon drown out everything else without the assistance of a third.

He thought of the recently passed Christmas, and how he hadn't even gotten the chance to hand-deliver gifts to his own child.

The alcohol lost the war. Defeated, he rested his elbows against the counter and hung his head, closing his eyes to the hustle of happy-hour. _Just relax_, he told himself. _Try to forget_. But he knew better.

"Do you know what I hate about life?"

He opened his eyes to the polished mahagony countertop, quite baffled as to what he'd just heard. A velvety-smooth female voice . . . but who was talking to him? His eyes darted out to the side, where he caught a glimpse of something other than a vacant barstool. A pair of taut legs, clad in nude pantyhose, rising up to meet beneath a black skirt.

His head snapped up.

"Huh?"

"I said, do you know what I hate about life?"

He wasn't quite sure how to reply, although he knew now that she must have been talking to him. Still, he was caught too off-guard to form a coherent sentence in his mouth.

"Rach! What can I get for you?", asked the bartender, who'd immediately gravitated towards them at the sound of her voice. "The usual dirty martini?"

"Not tonight, Marty. I need something stronger, and I'm in a hurry."

"Gotcha."

Ross took this moment when her eyes were off him to let his own gaze rake over her. The first thing he noticed was, though the lighting was scarce in the room, the little bits of it caught her golden hair and reflected. It hung creaseless over her shoulders, silky and smooth. Her mouth sat in a small pout as she waited for her drink, her jaw resting against her fist, but he couldn't catch her eyes from the side. He did, however, see the fabric of her red cardigan cling tightly to her body, exposing just a peek at what was underneath.

Marty turned back to her, setting down a shot of some unknown clear liquid in front of her and winking before getting back to the masses. She picked it up, crossed her legs- just as silky and smooth as her hair, he noted- and swirled on the stool to face him again.

"So, do you want to know or not?"

Bright, gleaming cerulean irises. They were all he could see.

"Sure," he answered, not even aware that he was speaking.

She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, throwing back her head and downing it all in one gulp. She slammed the empty glass back on the counter, making a face as the shot made its way down her throat. She immediately took a breath when it subsided, and shook her head a bit before looking back at him.

"When it doesn't go the way you always planned."

"Excuse me?", he asked, not quite remembering what she had been talking about in the first place. He finally tore away from her eyes, and looked at her fully. She was focusing on something to the side of him now, or perhaps just staring at thin air+.

"That's what I hate about life."

"Oh," he said softly, noticing a subtle glint of regret and depression in the woman's eyes. "I hate that, too."

"Doesn't everybody," she sardonically replied. She seemed to toss something over in her mind before settling on an outcome. "Well, I think that did the trick."

She left some money on the counter before sliding off the stool. With one half-hearted smile in his direction, she turned and made a beeline for the exit, leaving Ross mystified in her wake.

Had it been an illusion? A mind-trick? He stared after her, his eyes lingering at the door after she pushed her way through them. His mind couldn't process what had just happened, why this random women would choose to share that with him.

"She's real, bud," Marty said, making his rounds. Ross looked up, and saw a twinkle in the man's eye. "Hard to believe, but its true."

"Good," Ross replied. He tossed a few dollars in the bartender's direction, nodding a goodbye before setting off himself.

While he walked down the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, he feeled an odd sort of consolation. Sure, he felt like complete and utter shit tonight, but . . .

Maybe he wasn't alone in the world.

* * *

Honestly, I'm not 100 sure where this is going. I randomly wrote chunks of it and started really liking what I had, so I put it together and formed this. Only one more chapter is done as of right now. Rating may possibly be changed to M for upcoming chapters. And they're coming up short, which is a major pet peeve of mine, but oh well. Reviews are majorly appreciated, cause this story is gonna be a bit experimental for me. 

Lyrics in the summary from "Norwegian Wood" by The Beatles


	2. Chapter 2

Sober

He wasn't really sure how long he'd been standing outside, staring through the doorway. If he had to ballpark, he'd say at least a half hour, but he'd lost track of time the minute his eyes had focused on the inside.

Or more importantly, _who_ was inside.

His head had been clouded with thoughts of her for the past few weeks. It was like the short moment of interaction had been replaying extensively in his mind. When he had nothing but busy work at the museum, when he waited for the phone to ring announcing Ben's next visit (and it never had), when he stared at the white tile in his bathroom while taking a shower. He had no clue who this woman was, what her story was, or if he'd ever see her again in his life. Yet, somehow, she'd taken over his mind, implanting herself there like an invasive species that was unexpected yet welcome.

And, by some will that he knew must be stronger than his, she was sitting in the bar. At the counter, sipping what he assumed to be her "usual" dirty martini.

It was surreal, he noticed, as his eyes tracked the small movements she made when she shifted positions on the stool. He felt like he was in some sort of movie, only he was left without a script. Should he even say anything to her? Maybe she didn't even remember him, and it was never meant to be anything more than just some random, nondescript experience.

But he knew that if he didn't try, he'd never know.

It took nearly every ounce of courage running through his body to push the door open and actually move forward inside. The smoke haze, from cigarettes and cigars alike, didn't pester his eyes as it usually did. Or maybe he just wasn't paying attention. His thoughts were set on one thing, and his feet were somehow guiding him towards it, like he was in some shallow state of unconciousness.

He was right behind her, and all too soon. She was dressed somewhat differently from last time, yet still sexy and alluring and untouchable. Her black coctail dress clung to her subtle curves, exposing quite a bit of her smooth, tanned skin. He once again tracked her muscles shifting as she moved slightly, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. He gulped, and immediately his eyes darted around, hoping it wasn't too loud and she didn't notice.

She continued to sit, her hand absentmindedly stirring the olive skewer in circles in the clear liquid.

Ross was never one to take risks, or one to put himself out on a ledge. He always figured in the possible embarrassment of a situation, or the likelyhood of being hurt. And he almost always decided to be passive. But now, with her golden silk hair just a finger's breath away, he realized what a shit-hole that had led him to. Divorced, unused visitation rights with his child, a job he hated.

He had to know.

"You know what _I_ hate about life?", he heard himself saying, only he wasn't quite sure how or when he'd formed the words. He was ready to dart, to sprint away and never look back.

But to his surprise, she turned towards him, her confused face slipping into an amused smile at the sight of him.

"What might that be?"

He'd forgotten her molassas-smooth voice . . .

"When beautiful women randomly talk to me in bars and don't tell me their name."

He sat at the stool next to her, incredibly shocked with himself. He'd never found himself to be able to say anything like that. But when he saw her cheeks turn pink, and her face tilt down to hide her bashful smile, he felt a surge of pride in the pit of his stomach, like a lion roaring in victory. A rush went through his veins, like nothing he'd ever felt before.

When she looked up, her face was still branded with a grin. She watched him, mulling things over in her mind, before deciding on a route to take. She seemed to do that a lot.

"Rachel."

His senses heightened even more; maybe taking a chance paid off sometimes.

"I'm Ross," he complied, waving the bartender over to take his order at the same time. "Whiskey sour".

"I've never had that," she commented, looking interested. He noticed her martini glass was empty.

"Two, then."

As the waiter went to get the drinks, he turned his stool towards her. His shyer side began to take ahold again, and he wasn't entirely sure what to say at this point. So he simply watched her as she sized him up, just as he had on their previous encounter. Then she locked her eyes onto his.

"So what's your story?"

"Pardon?", he chuckled. "I think you _owe_ me the first explanation. Besides, what makes you think I even have a story?"

The drinks were placed before them, and Ross curled his fingers around the cool glass and took the first sip. She was more hesitant, and he looked at her with daring eyes, but an encouraging smile. She took a sip, and her face twisted at the taste as the alcohol worked into her system.

"That's strong," she commented, before answering his question. "And I don't know, you just look like the kind of person who's had his share of pain. Why the hell else would you be here?" She gestured at their dank surroundings.

"Is that the reason for your outburst last time?", he teased.

"I guess. It seemed like maybe you'd understand. Or, at least, not think I'm crazy for needing to vent."

"Well, you picked the right person," he admitted, averting his eyes and taking a deep breath before plunging in. "Married for three years, divorced, one son that I rarely see. How about you?"

"_Would_ have been married," she lamented. "If life were that easy."

"What happened?"

"Eh, I kinda of took off before the ceremony. I was scared, and all I knew was that I didn't love him. But God, wouldn't life have been easier if I had."

"There's always those kind of regrets," he sympathized. "Life would be a lot easier for me if my wife hadn't found out she was gay."

Rachel burst out in a small fit of giggles. She tried to smother them when his face displayed his hurt, but soon, he found himself begin to chuckle. And before he knew it, they were both shaking with delirious laughter. He was getting a stitch in his side, but he didn't care. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard that tears formed at the corners of his eyes. It fell almost like being high, as he became lightheaded, and not only from the laughter.

She looked beautiful when she laughed.

"Another round," he called out to the bartender.

-----

He couldn't even remember when he'd slipped under. Was it the third drink, or the sixth? Everything was so blurred together.

Somehow, he found himself in one of the booths in the back of the bar, sitting next to her on the bench. His head was spinning and all he could hear was her laughter, It echoed in his ears. She was leaning against the table, as if only it and the will of God himself was keeping her up. She didn't hold her liquor nearly as well as he did, and even _he_ was trashed. They were both babbling incoherently, giggling at nothing in particular and not making any sense. Neither noticed. Neither cared.

"So then what happened?", she asked, her words slurring together as she over-exaggerated each of her already enthusiastic gestures. He mumbled out some reply, and both were overtaken by a fit of laughter.

When they stopped, the moment became a bit quiet. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing, anymore, and stared intently at her. He knew she noticed but he didn't care. Even with the glassy eyes and messy hair, she was still looked amazing.

In brushing her long bangs out of her face, she caught his eye. Their breathing became a bit strained, and he realized for the first time that night just how close they were sitting. Her knee was brushing up against his, and suddenly, he felt dizzy. No one spoke.

"You haven't kissed me yet."

The silence was broken by her blunt statement. He didn't know how to answer. She was no longer smiling, but her glossy gaze was daring and defiant.

"What?" He tried to brush the comment off with a slight chuckle. What was he supposed to do? She was too drunk to know what she was saying anyways, right? Even so, he felt his heartrate skyrocket in anxiety, and he couldn't feel it, but he was sure he was sweating from more than the heat of his suit coat.

"You haven't," was all she replied with. She was indescreetly staring at his lips, unashamed. Or maybe too far gone to even feel shame.

His hands began to shake, and he prayed that she wouldn't notice. But then, he decided he was to wsated to pay it any attention. She probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning anyways.

And so, for reasons intangible to him, he leaned towards her. He couldn't think straight, or even move forward the right way. His lips caught the side of her own, and for a few lingering seconds, he felt completely and utterly sober, stuck in this moment with her.

She slowly opened her mouth, capturing his lower lip. She sucked lightly on it before they both pulled away. The moment was tense as their eyes locked, and for the hundreth time that night, he felt short of breath. He didn't dare say anything. Both their chests were suddenly heaving, and he was certain he'd melt in the heat of this room if they stayed any longer. She, however, had something to say about the moment.

"My place is down the block."


	3. Chapter 3

Sober

**Warning: This chapter explicitly sexual. As in, I've upped the rating from T to M.  
(So tell your friends about this fic! Cause it won't be shown on the default Friends page with an M)****  
And I was incredibly self concious while writing this, because none of my smutty scenes have taken it this far.  
Therefore, I haven't read it over since writing it, and there may be a mistake or two.  
But all I'm hoping for is that its not borderline mediocre porn, lol.**

_

* * *

_

_It's somewhat hard to remember, now, exactly what she looked like. She was elusive, stunning . . . but those words aren't real enough. The first time I touched her, held her . . . I knew she was more. _

_That's another thing I can't remember. How she felt. Her bare skin against my hand, her hair against my cheek, her lips on mine. It seems so long ago, that thinking of it only makes me ache for her touch. _

_One thing I do remember, though, is the heat._

-----

Rain had poured down harder than water from a faucet. He could feel it seeping into his clothing, soaking him to the very core, and he knew he should have been cold. Although, with the amount of alcohol still running through his veins, he most likely should have been numb. But he was neither.

He'd never felt more hot.

He was burning, almost sure that she had felt his sweat on her hand that clasped his tightly. She had led him down the street, darting through the rain in jog before running for cover under the overhang for her apartment building. He looked the building up and down as they entered. It was pretty swanky, he noted, especially for someone who claimed to not be well off. How did she afford living here? What did she do? He realized, with a pang of guilt, that he didn't even know.

They hadn't spoken a word the entire time. At first, the sounds of Manhattan in the middle of a storm diverted his attention. Now, the silence resounded in his ears, making him feel awkward and out of place as she unlocked the door to her apartment. He wondered what he was even doing here, why she'd asked him up. Was he really going to stoop down to the level of a one-night-stand? Or . . . would it lead to more than one night?

Once again, it was something he'd never know if he didn't try. He watched her peel her coat off, reveling in the fact that her dress underneath had gotten wet as well. The front clung to her tightly, exposing more of her bare chest than it originally had. Beads of water rolled over her skin, mesmerizing him as though they were performing a dance. Down her neck, over her collar bone, between her breasts . . .

"You want to get out of your coat?", she asked. He assumed it was because of how wet it had become, but a smaller, more hopeful part of his mind wondered if she was coming on to him. Who could tell, when the comment had barely been spoken clearly? She was still slurring.

"Sure," he said, throwing his now discarded suit coat on her white couch. What to do now, he wondered. She seemed to be watching him, perhaps pondering the same thing. He searched out her eyes with his own, and when they met, he felt a hitch in his breath.

What the hell _was_ this?

He didn't have time to develop an answer, because she moved from her place across the foyer. Her golden, sleek hair now hung in dark, damp waves that rested below her shoulders. Even through the rainwater, he could smell her perfume, and he began to feel even more lightheaded than before.

She was only mere inches from him, tilting her head up to look uncertainly into his gaze. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance between them and touch her. But he wasn't sure. He barely even knew this woman, and he wondered if anything that happened would even be _right_.

"Are you drunk?", she asked, though the answer to the question was obvious. She seemed to be straining with something in her mind.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Me too."

Her eyes were so inviting, their warmth showing through the icy blue, beckoning him in. And then, he felt the skin of her hand lightly graze his.

"Good," he snarled, before rushing forward and crushing his lips to hers. He held her face in his hands, pushing his tongue forward to explore her mouth. He felt her grip his back, her fingernails digging in and clawing him through his shirt, making him shudder.

His hands moved down to her back, finding the zipper of her dress and pulling it down the length of her back. He slid a hand inside, stroking the smooth skin of her back. Her arms were around his neck now, her hands in his hair, scratching at his scalp. When he began to slide the straps of her dress down her shoulders, she immediately moved to his buttons, ripping at them as the hunger of the moment heightened.

He wasn't entirely sure when it happened, but she had somehow pulled him back to a bedroom as they undressed each other. He ran his hands over her body, feeling her pull him closer, her tongue swirling against his own, her leg rising to curl around his. Her hips pushed up into him, and he moaned, thanking God for the bed behind them. Her knees hit the edge, and she brought him down on top of her, still engulfed in the bruising kiss.

He finally came up from air, moving his lips down to caress her neck. She ran her hands through his hair, provoking him, whimpering with every touch. He moved down, his tongue brushing over her breasts. Her took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard before switching to the other. She began begging him, softly calling out his name. She placed her hands in an almost vice grip on his shoulders, instinctively pushing him downward towards her need.

He let his hand travel down her body, pushing her legs open. He continued his work on her breasts, as his fingers began playing with her, surprising her when he slid in one, then two fingers. Her grip on him only tightened, her moans increasing in decimal until she was pushed over, spasms rippling through her body as her muscles clenched.

The second he withdrew, she turned him over to be on top, assaulting him with her tongue. He closed his eyes, letting the feeling of her small weight on top of him wash over. She parted her legs, each one resting on either side of him. His hips thrust up into hers, his lips and hands reaching for her. She rubbed herself against him, and he tried as hard as he could to not lose it just yet.

She soon lifted her hips, adjusting him below her before taking him in. They both groaned in unison as she sank onto him, taking him deeply. She began to move slowly at first, finding her balance and rotating her hips. It was driving him insane. He needed to thrust harder, to push in deeper, to feel her reach the height. He took his hips in his hands, forcing her down as he pushed up. Her back arched into his touch as she threw her head back and muffled a scream.

He pulled her onto him harder and harder, wondering if he was hurting her but at the same time, too focused to pay attention. She would say something if she needed to. She lowered herself down from her sitting position, lying her chest against his own as he continued to pound her down. His hands were on her ass now, pulling himself as deep as he could reach as his tongue one again attacked her own.

"Fuuuuck," she moaned quietly against his ear, and he could tell she was close.

He felt the heat of her ragged breath against his neck, her lips dragging over his skin. Then, finally, a scream as she fell over the edge, the contraction of her muscles bringing him with her. She melted into him, like they were a single panting, sweating being. He could feel her heart beat against his chest, only a step ahead of his own. Closing his eyes, he tried to catch his breath.

She rolled to the side, letting her head rest against his chest, and her leg entangle itself in his. She didn't look at him; rather, she kept her forehead pressed against his skin, her deep breaths tickling his skin.

He didn't know what to do.

The spinning in his head seemed to slow down, but he still couldn't make sense of the moment. Should he say something? Wait for her to say something? Just fall asleep and leave it up to the morning?

Instead, he simply curled her up against him, his hands stroking her sticky skin. He felt her lips against his shoulder, briefly, before she completely relaxed into him.

"What now?", she whispered softly. He couldn't have said it better himself. What had they gotten themselves into, here?

"I don't know."

They sat in silence for a few moments, until he reached to the end of a bed and pulled a warm blanket over them.

"I guess we just wait until morning."

She nodded, burying her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Her arm snaked across his chest, hugging him to her as she let out a sigh.

He gently kissed her forehead before his eyelids drifted shut.


	4. Chapter 4

Sober

Okay, I had no idea I hadn't touched this since November, haha. But even since then, I keep rereading this fic and I really missed it. Even if it looks like I abandoned it, it was only because I had NO idea how to handle their "morning after", and I've been in a creative stand-still of sorts lately. But I've been playing around with this chapter for like a month now, and I'm finally just gonna post it, even if its super short. Just want you guys to know that I really don't want to leave this one hanging and will hopefully start writing more of it soon :-).

And, well, it was disheartening when I rewrote the first chapter as a short story for the literary magazine at school, and since I'm on the staff, I had to sit while everyone criticized it. I suppose high school isn't ready for me, haha, cause most of the staff is a few years younger than me and had nothing to say about it. But whatever, blah blah blah, please enjoy the chapter :-) I hope some of you are still out there lol

Oh, and the whole birth control thing is settled in here. It just bugs me to write it in those scenes cause its so jarring in light of all the action.

* * *

This wasn't his bedroom.

That was the only thing that registered at first. He'd only taken a short glimpse at his surroundings, before his heavy eyelids snapped shut at the blinding light. It was blurry, and he was sure his head was spinning in circles. This place was white, anyway. Definitely not his own home.

As he gradually came to, things fell into place in their own time. He was naked. Naked and suffering from a massive headache. And a shower was going in the next room over, and he suddenly remembered her. His eyes drifted down, and caught the foil of an empty condom wrapper. A cold chill washed over his sweaty, over-heated body, even in the muggy room.

He didn't even know her last name.

"Fuck . . .", he mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes. This was definitely not him. He'd never had a one night stand before, let alone slept with many women outside of his ex-wife. And he hadn't even known Rachel for more than a few days. Truthfully, he didn't really know her at all.

What was he to do? Stay here, in her bed, amongst her mocking white sheets, just waiting for her to emerge from the bathroom into one long, awkward moment? He could always bolt, he supposed, but he wasn't the kind of person to do that. That didn't sit right in his stomach, although that could have been accounted to the hangover. It seemed that thin air wasn't sitting in his stomach, either.

All too soon, he heard the steady flow from the shower cease. His heart was pounding as he tried to muster a coherant thought from his clouded mind. What was there to say to her, even? Should he apologize for last night, or embrace it? He had no idea, and didn't know how he felt about what happened himself.

And then, she was in the doorway, clad in pale blue linen pants and a white tank top, dabbing at her wet hair with a towel.

"Oh . . . you're up," she said, after a moment of them staring at each other. He wasn't sure if she was disappointed, surprised, or both. Or maybe she, like him, was just taking the moment as it came.

"Yeah . . ." he replied lamely. He was suddenly much more aware of the fact that he was naked, even with the hazy memory of last night's events. He clung her sheets closer to himself. "Do you mind if I . . ."

"Oh, sure," she understood, collecting his clothes from around the room and handing them to him. She left the room, most likely to search out some asprin and make coffee in the kitchen, while Ross retreated to the bathroom to clean himself up.

A brief shower left him refreshed, if not still nauseous. After dressing, he caught his own eye in the mirror. He took a deep, hard look at himself, but wasn't sure about what he saw. Something was different, but whether it was good or bad . . .

He tore himself away from his own image, going over potential openning lines for the inevitable "morning after" conversation in his head.

When he found the doorway to the kitchen, he could see her at the table. She sat, a bit hunched over, one hand supporting her head as the other stirred the mug of coffee in front of her. Her eyes were closed, as though she was in deep thought as well. Even in the morning, wet hair and all, she was still stunning to him. He allowed himself a few moments of just watching her, before he cleared his throat.

"Hey there," he uncertainly called out as she turned to see him.

"Hi."

He tentatively took steps foreward, eventually ending up across the table from her, their eyes locked the entire time. Her gaze questioned him, begging for some sort of answer that he couldn't provide anymore than she could. He sat down.

"I'm going to be honest," he began, thinking it best to just say it out loud. "I have no idea what to do now."

"Me either," she admitted, chuckling a bit. "I've never . . . done that."

"Neither have I."

They both then stared at the table, and he fought back images of her from last night. It felt almost wrong to think of her that way, when she was in front of him, so palid and frail. But still . . . he couldn't help it. He knew, somehow, that there was something more. Lust was one thing, but there was some string connecting her to him, though he couldn't yet decipher what it was.

"I want to see you again," he said at once, prompting her to look at him in confusion. "And I'm not saying like last night."

She nodded in understanding, and seemed to think about this.

"Yeah," she eventually agreed. "Me too."

He half-smiled, now pouring out coffee for himself, soaking up the silence between them. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but the tension could have been but with a single spoon. It was more the feeling of anxiousness, wondering where this would go, if anywhere, and what they should do next.

"Massive hangover?", she asked, cutting the silence with a sharp smile.

"Like never before," he laughed.

"What in God's name were we drinking?"

"By the time we left, who knows. It could have been apple juice and we wouldn't have known the difference."

"Most likely true," she noted. "I remember making you try an apple martini, at some point, actually."

"Well, there you go. I normally hate those."

She giggled, and he realized just how infectious her laugh was. However, his eye caught a clock hanging on the wall, and he knew he'd have to leave if he wanted to make it to work on time.

"I actually have a class to teach soon, so I better get going."

"I'll walk you to the door," she offered, and he laughed to himself when he noticed the door was a mere room's walk away. She was just as awkward as he was in all of this, and the thought kept him at ease.

"So, we should . . ." he trailed off. Do this again sometime? That sounded rude, considering just what they'd done. They didn't need to do that again anytime soon. He just wanted to get to know her, minus the effects of mixing alcohol and lust. "There's this coffee shop I know, if you maybe want to grab a cup sometime."

"Sounds good," she said, smiling. "I'm free Friday night."

"I'll swing by around seven."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, before she surprised him by leaning up and kissing him. Her lips lingered only a moment before they both pulled away, each a bit embarrassed. Ross felt like he was in high school, leaving a girl the morning after their first kegger.

"I'll see you, then," he said, goofily, even waving. As she closed the door behind him, he mentally kicked his ass for being so overly happy.

. . . Happy?

-----

_So _that _was what 'happy' felt like. I had finally remembered._


End file.
